Flynn just left my apartment and I am trying to phase back into society.

We spent the last three days hanging out – specifically in Toronto - which was an absolute blast. No, before you ask, we were not successful in our hostile takeover. We tried, but the Canadians were too damn nice and we felt bad, so we settled on sulking into some poutine instead.

There are an awful lot of stories I could tell you about all the wacky hijinx we got up to. Why don’t we start with the absolute worst thing that happened while we were in Canada, or formally “How Red Nearly Didn’t Get Back Into the Country” – because I like starting in media res, if you haven’t noticed. Starting at the beginning is for squares.

You should know that this happened during a very sleep deprived moment in both our lives – the drive back from Canada was – really something, let me tell you. We were delirious. About thirty minutes from the border I dimly realized that I had no idea where my passport had wandered off to. Promptly I asked Flynn through gritted teeth if she’d held onto it when we made the trip north. Wide-eyed, she turns to me and squeaks out a no. Smash cut forward to Flynn climbing around the inside of the car (and on one occasion accidentally kicking me in the back of the head) as we swerved through expressway traffic.

Tension slowly mounted as we realized my passport was nowhere to be found. Finally we pulled over. Flynn very sweetly kept checking in on me – which at the time I didn’t appreciate because I was busy throttling the life out of the steering wheel and wondering if I’d have to learn how to play hockey or speak french. As soon as we came to a stop, she tumbled into the parking lot with my suitcase and started turning it upside down looking for the damn thing. As I fought with my seatbelt to join her, there I saw, lodged behind the buckle – that little bastard passport.

Sheepishness ensued.
- [RED]